to the library

The library in the small town I grew up in was just a few short blocks from our house. A straight shot down the street, but just far enough that you couldn't see one from the other. I have vivid memories of the place. The carpet, the smell of the books, the fact that I could check out only three books at a time and probably never left with anything less. We were frequent visitors, frequent enough that the children's librarian knew me by name. Knew me well enough, in fact, to give me little hints about the subject of the next story time so that I could dictate my own story on the subject to my mother, which the librarian would dutifully read to the crowd of children.

The one and only time in my life that I was returned to my parents in the care of the police was on a walk to the library. I had run ahead of my parents and then, unable to see them, I panicked and turned down an unknown street, frantically looking for help. I wasn't supposed to talk to strangers, which made sense in the safety of my house or the classroom but which seemed a little unhelpful once I was lost and everyone was a stranger. Although it had probably been less than a minute, I felt like it had been hours since I'd seen my parents and cursed myself for thinking that I could make it to the library by myself. Eventually (which was probably like, 30 seconds later but felt like eventually) I found a friendly policeman parked on the corner and tearfully told him my tale. Right about then my parents appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, to claim me. At the time I saw it as quite the drama, but now as a parent myself I have to wonder if I wasn't being taught a little lesson about running ahead.
Later, when I was about eight, the library moved across town to a newer, nicer building, and although we still went, it wasn't as often, and it never held quite the same place in my heart as the cramped but lovely old library. But I continued my love affair with libraries and books and have spent an inordinate amount of time in them over the years. I even found a little hidy-hole in the law library during my undergrad years that no one else seemed to know about and did all of my studying, and a good amount of sleeping, tucked away amongst the stacks.
Once a week Evelyn and I walk up the hill to the library for story time. Both my kids have been regulars at library story time since they were babies. Through all of our moves and all of the changes in our life as a family, heading to the library for a story and some fun has been a constant, no matter where we have been. The library here is wonderful, it has probably overtaken the spot in my heart for the library of my own childhood even. The librarians know our kids by name and have patiently, so patiently, helped Briton search out books for whatever subject interests him at the moment. Evelyn, who is notorious for bringing more things than she needs pretty much everywhere she goes and then leaving them behind, has had, at various times, a spot on the shelf behind the desk where whatever she has lost can sit until we come again.
Story time now means her heading up on her own with Miss Anne instead of a big group of moms and toddlers. It was, starting the week she turned three, the first time she got to taste Independence. The first without mommy activity and has continued to be her favorite time of the week. And for mommy, who gets 30 minutes of blissful, no housework, no work work, just sit in a quiet library and read or knit time, it's not so shabby either.
Our story time days are numbered, however. Next year she will be pouring over which book to bring home at school, under a different librarian's eye. She'll walk down the hall from her class instead of up the street from home. We'll still have library time, I don't think we could live without it, but it will be different. Much like when the library of my childhood moved. Just, different. For nearly nine years, across 5 states and two countries I have been to story time almost every week of the year. But come September...well, I wont think about that now. I might get weepy if I do.

For the Love of Trader Joe's

This is my favorite week of the month. And not because of birthdays or holidays or even the fact that next week we will get to close on the new house. No, the reason I love this week is because it's the week after our (roughly) monthly trip to Trader Joe's. I didn't realize how much I loved this store until we moved to a city that had none.

Grocery stores in general have been a problem since we moved to Charlottesville. The problem being that I don't like any of them. We were spoiled for grocery stores in Portland you see. Within walking distance from our house there were two, excellent local stores. One that was kind of a regional version of a super target and one that was a fabulous small Portland chain called New Seasons that carried local produce, organic fare as well as the normal stuff that my husband can't live with out (like Coke and Shredded Wheat). Within an easy five minute drive there were about ten other grocery stores, including a couple that would deliver. We went to Trader Joe's when we needed to, stocked up on wine and fun foods, but most of the stuff that Trader Joe's is known for could also be found at New Seasons or Natures or Freddys and so on.

Before Portland we lived in Ireland where, on top of two good sized walkable grocery stores and a good dozen butchers, delis, greengrocers etc, we could hop on a train and three stops in either direction be at a Marks and Spencer which is, well, the best store ever. I could never cook from scratch again quite happily if I could shop only at Marks and Sparks.

But I'm getting away from myself. The point is, there's nothing like that here. The only recognizable grocery chains here are Kroger (always dingy, yuck) and Whole Foods (I wont even go into why, but I really dislike Whole Foods). Everything else is just, blah. The meat is ok, the vegetables are ok, the selection is decent. I can survive. They have my coffee and my tea, both of which are pertinent to my survival. Everything else, well, like I said, I can survive. We do shop at this funky little local grocery store that has good meat (not organic or necessarily local, but fresh. Fresh as in, they are usually busy cutting it up while you are picking it out) But overall the grocery scene isn't my fav.

When they opened a Trader Joe's in Richmond this spring I was thrilled. Both because now I could go stock up on some of my old favorites and because there was a hint, a mere whisper that if there was a TJ's in Richmond, and on the close side of Richmond, surely one in Charlottesville isn't far behind. And sure enough, a few weeks ago they were approved for a liquor license for Charlotttesville. Yeah!!!! And then, Wahhhh! Because they aren't supposed to open until 2011! To long. I NEED some ready to cook Orange Chicken in my freezer NOW! I can't stand paying more than three bucks for wine! Then there is the salsa (Oh! I forgot to buy salsa this trip! Damn damn damn!) and the pasta sauce and the curry and the dried fruit and...see what I mean. So much to love.

So for now I will make an excuse at least once a month to make the trek to Short Pump (what a name, I mean really? Short Pump?) to haul home three or four bags full of jars and bags and boxes. And for a good week my pantry will look like a Trader Joe's stockroom. And cooking dinner will be easier. Because while I like to cook, in fact, I'm starting to love cooking more and more, there are always days where I just don't want to. And to be able to pull out a jar of Korma Simmer Sauce and flip on the rice cooker and be done with it, well, that's worth the drive.

What kind of dork am I, eh?

Chick...Chick...CHICKEN!

It started so innocently. Honestly, it did.
"Hey, what would you think about a community chicken coop?"
It wasn't even my idea. Sure I may have planted the idea somehow. Will and I had chickens in Portland and I have missed them. Their soft clucking as I worked in the garden, their funny obsession with dandelion blossoms, apparently the chicken version of catnip. I missed having them follow me around and sit on the edge of the sand pit while Evelyn dug away. So when the idea came up, I jumped. Little did I know the controversy it would cause.
A pre-walking Evie with one of our Portland Chicken - Henny Penny


We pulled together four families, found a site that was central to us all in one family's yard, designed a small coop (well, Will sketched about 40 two inch high ideas and I took the one I liked and handed it off to my neighbor who was doing the paperwork side) and submitted it to the board of architectural review. Easy peasy lemon squeezy, right?

Not right. The neighbors (not those involved obviously, not even really those around us, these were neighbors in the broader sense of "neighborhood") flew into an uproar. Somehow our plan for eight little hens turned into a scandal about having roosters and giant hen houses.

Articles were written in the paper, news cameras showed up, interviews were done, reinforcements were called on to come show support at the BAR meeting. We were in a panic, we were furious! What was wrong with people that they couldn't just LET US HAVE OUR CHICKENS!!!

Our three day old chicks in Portland

And then, as quickly as it began, it stopped.The BAR passed the coop with a unanimous vote and lots of off topic ( they were only supposed to be dealing with the structure, not the facts of chicken-keeping in town) banter about how great chickens were. All systems were go. No one even showed up to object. The fuss, it seemed, surrounded a lack in knowledge about chicken biology. Chickens don't need roosters to make eggs you see, but not everybody knows that. And really why should they. Just because I was lulled to sleep with John Seymour's Guide to Self Sufficiency doesn't mean everyone else was. I suppose it's just another part of the lost knowledge that modern times have brought. People don't just know how to milk a cow, or even sew on a button these days. Which is kind of sad.

Part of me hopes this economic situation we have gotten ourselves into will help people get back to their roots. I keep thinking of wartime Britain, where they dug up parks and front yards and even the moat around the Tower of London to help feed the nation. Pull together, grow your own food, help your neighbor, understand chicken ovulation. But somehow I can't see the Wall Street tycoons who lost everything they had, and everything everyone else had, digging up their manicured lawns to grow food for the masses. A girl can dream though. For now, I'm just excited that the chickens are coming.